THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THANKSGIVING 


AND 


OTHER   POEMS 


BY 

AGATHA. 


NEW   YORK 

G.     P.    PUTNAM'S    SONS 

182   FIFTH   AVF.NUK 

1880 


CONTENTS. 


I'AGE 

Thanksgiving I 

A  Dream  of  Summer 14 

The  Trailing  Arbutus 16 

Cloud  Pictures 18 

The  Lace-maker 20 

My  Picture .24 

Origin  of  the  Lilies  of  the  Valley 27 

If 33 

Marguerite 35 

The  Chapel  in  the  Forest 37 

Longing 39 

My  Secret 42 

Asleep 44 

A  Perfect  Day 47 

A  Picture 49 

On  the  Death  of  a  Pet  Bird 51 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Only 53 

Memories 55 

Kate  and  1 57 

Leaflets 59 

Love's  Teaching 61 

O  Faithful  Heart 63 

Etchings 65 

Leona 67 

A  Retrospect 69 

My  King 71 

My  Queen 73 

A  Rainy  Night 76 

My  Heaven 79 

I>reaming 81 

To  Hella 83 

The  King-fisher 87 

Granted 88 

To  Madame  Marie  Rose 90 

Ashes 93 

The  Robin  Red-breast 96 

Ghosts 99 


THANKSGIVING, 

AND 

OTHER     POEMS. 


THANKSGIVING. 

IN  a  valley  far  from  the  noisy  town, 

The  old  farm-house  stands  low  and  brown. 


Year  by  year  has  the  summer  sun 

And  the  winter  storm  its  work  well  done, 

Till  from  door-stone  broad  to  roof-tree  high 
It  seems  a  relic  of  days  gone  by. 

Patches  of  moss  on  the  shingles  grow, 
Last  year's  nests  in  the  porch  below; 

i 


THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 
^- 
Swallows  build  in  the  chimney  wide  ; 

Lilac  bushes  grow  just  outside  ; 

Their  clusters  of  purplish  blossoms  fair, 
Filling  with  perfume  the  soft  spring  air. 

Bearded  grain,  and  tasseled  corn, 

Wave  in  the  breath  of  each  summer  morn  ; 

While  the  ripened  apples  softly  fall 
In  autumn  days  by  the  orchard  wall. 

Children's  voices  are  heard  no  more 
Happy  at  play  by  the  kitchen  door. 

One  by  one  they  have  grown,  and  gone, 
And  the  old  folks  now"  are  left  alone, 

With  figures  bent,  and  whitened  hair, 
And  wrinkled  faces  that  once  were  fair  : 

Eyes  needing  spectacles  to  see, 

And  steps  not  spry  as  they  used  to  be. 


THANKSGIVING. 

Bound  by  the  ties  that  hold  the  heart 
Of  the  old  brown  house  they  seem  a  part. 
*         *         *          *          *         *          * 

Knitting  in  hand  in  her  rocking-chair, 
"  Mother  "  muses  on  days  that  were. 

Ever}'  click  of  the  shining  steel, 

As  she  sets  the  seam,  or  binds  the  heel, 

Takes  up  the  stitches  thick  and  fast, 
In  the  golden  web  of  the  days  long  past. 
>- — 
She  sees  in  the  orchard  a  tiny  mound, 

Level  now  with  the  earth  around  : 

Her  one  wee  daughter,  sweet  and  fair, 
She  laid  to  rest  under  daisies  there  ; 

Fifty  years  !  but  it  seems  a  day — 
Living,  she  too  had  been  old  and  gray. 

Her  memory  lives,  as  in  those  young  days, 
' '  The  baby  "  with  pretty,  winsome  ways. 


THANKSGIVING,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

A  tear-drop  gathers  and  dims  her  sight, 
And  falls  unseen  on  the  needles  bright. 


"  Father  "  dozes  o'er  paper  or  book, 
Smoking  his  pipe  in  the  chimney  nook  ; 

With  a  frequent  glance  at  the  swaying  chair, 
To  be  sure  that  mother  is  resting  there. 

Reading  the  news  by  his  own  fireside, 

He  scarcely  dreams  that  the  world's  so  wide. 

He  has  sent  his  sons  to  do  their  part 
In  the  money-getting  busy  mart  : 

Four  stalwart  men,  and  he  thinks  with  pride 
There  were  no  such  boys  in  the  country  side. 

He  lives  in  them  again  to-day, 

Since  his  youth  and  strength  have  passed  away. 


THANKSGIVING. 

Oh,  the  golden  heart-warming  autumn  days  ! 
The  air  is  full  of  a  dreamy  haze  : 

So  quiet  the  noisy  brooklets  seem, 
We  hear  their  dashing  as  in  a  dream. 

The  sloping  hill-sides,  and  mountains  grand, 
In  a  blaze  of  glory  gorgeous  stand, 

Red,  and  yellow,  and  golden  brown, 
A  mass  of  color  fluttering  down  : 

Hues  that  an  artist  ne'er  can  trace — 
Nature's  own  for  October  days. 

Load  by  load  the  fragrant  hay 

Has  been  gathered  in  and  stowed  away  ; 

Wheat,  rye,  oats,  a  goodly  store, 

Bundled  and  thrashed  on  the  broad  barn  floor  ; 

Big  golden  pumpkins  piled  up  high 

For  the  winter's  feed,  and  the  luscious  pie  ; 


THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

Bins  in  the  cellar,  filled  with  care, 
Spitzenberg,  greening,  and  russet  rare  ; 

New  sweet  cider  sipped  through  a  straw — 
Nectar  fit  for  the  gods  to  draw. 


There's  a  dream  of  snow  in  the  frosty  air  ; 
The  skies  are  gray,  and  the  fields  are  bare  ; 

The  whistling  wind,  as  it  creeps  around, 
Has  a  sort  of  sorrowful  sighing  sound. 

Boughs  of  green,  that  have  filled  up  high 
The  fireplace  in  summer  days  gone  by, 

Are  cast  aside  ;  and  morn  and  night, 
The  hearth-fire  blazes  warm  and  bright. 

There's  bustle  and  stir  at  the  old  home  farm  : 
Some  potent  spell  works  its  magic  charm. 

Frcm  cellar  to  garret  a  sense  of  cheer 
Pervades  the  home-like  atmosphere. 


THANKSGIVING.  7 

The  very  smoke  curls  in  joyous  rings, 
And  leaps  to  its  airy  wanderings. 

Savory  odors  float  from  afar, 
When  the  oven  door  is  left  ajar  ; 

And  the  cupboard  shelves  are  loaded  down 
With  flaky  pies  of  a  golden  brown. 

The  fire  burns  bright  in  the  "keeping-room." 
Chambers  above  are  all  aboom 

With  "feathered  star,"  and  "  rising  sun," 

"Job's  trouble,"  "diamond,"  and  "herring-bone." 

Works  of  art,  tho'  they  be  less  fair 
Than  picture  fine,  or  sculpture  rare. 

In  the  front  porch  oft  does  "  mother"  stand, 
Shading  her  eyes  with  her  withered  hand  ; 

Anxiously  watching  the  lowering  sky, 
Where  sullen  clouds  scud  swiftly  by ; 


8        THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

Shutting  the  door,  and  saying  low, 

"  I'm  afraid  we're  bound  to  have  some  snow." 

"  Father  "  comes  in  from  out  of  doors — 

He's  "done  the milkin'," and  "  seen  to  the  chores  ;  " 

He  rubs  his  hands  at  the  blaze  so  bright — 
"  I'm  afeard  it'll  be  a  teejus  night  ; 

"But  the  cattle  are  housed,  and  the  comin'  storm 
Will  find  all  tidy,  and  snug,  and  warm. 

"  I  sort  o'  hope  we  won't  have  snow  ; 
It  don't  hardly  seem  as  it  could  be  so — 

"That  to-morrow  Thanksgivin''  Day  will  come, 
And  all  the  children  are  comin'  home." 

Yes  !   back  once  more  to  the  old  fireside — 
Isaiah  the  eldest — his  father's  pride, 

A  middle-aged  man  with  grayish  hair, 
And  a  face  that  shows  some  lines  of  care. 


THA  NKSGI VING. 

/^ 

A  banker — rich — they  always  stand 

\A  little  in  awe  of  his  wife  so  grand  : 

' 

She  isn't  used  to  their  country  way, 
And  simple  manners  of  every  day. 

Stephen  too,  with  his  gentle  bride — 
His  parish  is  in  the  country  side. 

'Twas  a  happy  day  when  his  mother  heard 
His  preaching  of  the  Holy  Word 

From  the  old  church  pulpit  perched  so  high — 
His  boyish  wonder  in  days  gone  by. 

Tho'  the  others  are  loved,  and  ne'er  forgot, 
In  her  heart  he  has  always  the  warmest  spot. 

Captain  William,  their  sailor  boy — 
How  he  used  to  shout  his  "  Ship  ahoy  !  " 

In  his  dreams,  and  wake  them  all  from  sleep — 
His  home  is  now  on  the  restless  deep  ; 


IO      THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

But  his  ship  is  in  ;  he'll  anchor  lay, 
To  keep  with  them  Thanksgiving  Day. 

And  noisy  Robert,  full  of  glee, 
'  As  a  college  boy  will  ever  be  : 

The  youngsters  think  it  a  lucky  day 
When  "Uncle  Bob"  will  lead  their  play. 

They're  sure  to  have  the  best  of  fun, — 
Mother  hopes  they're  coming,  every  one. 

V^^— . — 

Such  bunches  of  dill  and  caraway, 
Such  huge  seed  cookies  find  their  way 

To  little  hands  from  her  pockets  deep, 
Are  secrets  grandma  alone  can  keep. 

On  the  earth's  broad  bosom,  bare  and  brown, 
The  snow  falls  softly,  lightly  down  ; 

Tossed  by  the  wind,  in  many  a  whirl 
The  feathery  flakelets  creep  and  curl  ; 


THANKSGIVING.  \  \ 

•    Drape  the  boughs  of  the  forest  pine 
In  many  a  graceful  pendulous  line, 

f    And  seem  in  their  purity  to  cling 
Like  a  benison  to  everything. 

But  if  all  without  is  bleak  and  drear, 
Within  is  comfort  and  happy  cheer. 

The  huge  fire  logs  in  the  chimney  wide 
Crackle  and  blaze  as  in  gleeful  pride. 

Spread  for  the  feast  the  table  stands, 
The  work  of  cunning  and  skillful  hands. 

Ye  lovers  of  ceramics  draw  near  ; 
A  tempting  treasure  waits  you  here. 

Faience,  Wedgwood,  and  Dresden  fine, 
Lowestoft,  Canton,  may  all  combine. 

No  such  gems  'mong  them  all  I  see, 
As  in  "mother's"  best  set  of  mulberry. 


12      THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS, 

Only  on  state  occasions  rare 

Is  ever  displayed  this  service  fair  : 

It  was  "  father's  "  gift  on  her  wedding-day — 
Not  a  piece  broken  or  given  away. 

She  looks  with  pride  on  the  purplish  bands, 
Wipes  a  speck  of  dust  with  her  wrinkled  hands, 

And  hopes  that  "  Isaiah's  wife  will  see 
Her  table's  as  nice  as  need  to  be." 

Who  shall  picture  the  tempting  array 

Of  dainties  that  graced  the  board  that  day  ? 

Who  can  forget  the  frolic  and  fun 
That  followed  when  the  meal  was  done  ? 

Games  for  the  youngsters  of  maddest  glee, 

Uncle  Bob  leading  the  revelry  • 
\^^ 

While  the  old  folks  talked  in  the  fire-light's  glow 
Of  other  Thanksgivings  they  used  to  know. 


THA  NKSGI VING. 

All  at  home  !  not  a  single  one 
From  the  happy  circle  lost  or  gone. 

When  another  year  shall  bring  this  day, 
Father  and  mother,  passed  away, 

Their  life-work  done,  keep  hand  in  hand 
Their  harvest  home  in  a  better  land. 

But  the  children  visit  the  well-known  spot — 
The  old  brown  house  is  not  quite  forgot. 

And  children's  children  hear  them  tell 
Of  the  old  home  days  they  loved  so  well. 

Over  all  the  land  in  East  and  West, 
All  that  is  purest,  noblest,  best, 

Throbs  in  the  hearts  that  warmly  glow 
With  thoughts  of  Thanksgivings  long  ago  : 

And  memory's  magnet  links  the  chain 
That  draws  each  wanderer  home  again. 


14      THANKSGIVING,  AND    OTHER  POEMS. 


A  DREAM  OF  SUMMER. 

OH,  the  yellow,  yellow  buttercups  ! 

How  the  meadows  are  studded  over — 
Flecks  of  gold  'mid  the  crimson  and  white, 

Satin  leaves  'mid  the  blossoming  clover  : 
Softly  blue  is  the  summer  sky, 

All  the  air  is  heavy  with  sweetness, 
And  the  restless  heart  beats  satisfied 

Hushed  with  a  sense  of  life's  completeness. 

Listen  how  merrily  wavelets  sing  ! 

Over  the  white  stones  how  the  brook  dashes 
Graceful  willows  bend  over  the  bank, 

Kiss  the  water  in  softest  plashes  ; 
Cool  little  nooks  where  the  shadows  play, 

Under  the  dancing  leaves  reclining  ; 
A  slumberous  murmur  in  all  the  air — 

The  saddest  heart  must  cease  repining. 


A   DREAM  OF  SUMMER.  15 

In  the  hazy  distance  the  mountains  blue — 

Bluer  cloudlets  their  tops  caressing, 
Tenderly  folding  their  rugged  peaks, 

Like  a  life  folded  in  love's  blessing. 
Threads  of  silver  adown  the  green 

Mark  where  the  cascades  fall  and  glisten, 
Thundering  down  through  the  mountain  gorge, 

When  only  the  quiet  moon  may  listen. 

Pink  and  white  petals  that  fall  in  showers 

Wealth  of  velvety  apple  blooming, 
Dashing  the  green  with  soft  flecks  of  white, 

Filling  the  air  with  rich  perfuming  : 
Grasshopper's  chirping,  and  cricket's  song, 

Lazily  welcome  each  new-comer  ; 
Heaven  above  us,  and  beauty  around, 

Speaking  peace  in  a  dream  of  summer. 


1 6      THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


THE  TRAILING  ARBUTUS. 

MY  darling,  beautiful  blossoms  ! 

I  know  just  where  they  grow — 
In  a  little  spot  on  the  hill-side 

Where  the  sun-rays  melt  the  snow. 

The  glossy  leaves  half  hide  them, 
And  the  snows  around  them  cling  ; 

They  stand  at  the  door  of  winter 
To  welcome  in  the  spring. 

So  modest  in  their  growing, 

So  fragrant  and  so  fair, 
As  I  pluck  the  tiny  blossoms, 

They  perfume  all  the  air. 

To  my  sad  heart  tired  with  waiting 
They  speak  like  the  voice  of  song, 

Like  the  trembling  prayer  that  rises 
The  cool  church  aisles  among. 


THE   TRAILING  ARBUTUS. 

But  most  of  all  I  love  them, 

And  my  heart  with  longing  fills, 

When  I  think  how  in  other  spring-times 
They  grew  on  my  native  hills. 

I  know  each  spot  in  the  forest, 
Each  sunny  glade  and  nook, 

Where  in  spring-time  nature  opened 
And  showed  us  her  wondrous  book, 

With  its  green  and  lovely  border 
Of  ground  and  prince's  pine, 

And  each  page  traced  with  the  graceful 
And  delicate  spiral  vine. 

Set  in  the  midst  like  a  picture, 

My  tiny  blossoming  gems, 
More  precious  than  the  rarest 

In  monarch's  diadems. 

Tho'  my  fingers  cannot  gather 
My  gems  'neath  an  April  sky, 

My  heart  can  always  hold  them  ; 
They  can  never  fade  or  die. 


I g      THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  PO£M\ 


CLOUD   PICTURES. 

NOT  traced  by  human  fingers, 
Nor  hung  in  the  halls  of  art, 

Are  the  paintings,  rare  and  olden, 
Which  satisfy  the  heart. 

But  when  the  golden  sunset 
Gleams  with  its  mellow  rays, 

Kind  angels  draw  the  curtains 
Which  hide  them  from  our  gaze. 

Shadowy  forms  of  loved  ones 
Stand  where  the  cloud  rifts  part ; 

Eyes  that  we  used  to  worship 
Speak  to  the  aching  heart. 

Oh,  lips  of  crimson  sweetness! 

Oh,  cheeks  like  the  lily  fair ! 
Oh,  form  of  matchless  beauty  ! 

Oh,  masses  of  waving  hair  ! 


CLOUD  PICTURES. 

My  heart  grows  wild  with  longing 
As  I  lost  in  wonder  gaze, 

While  memory  brings  before  me 
The  joys  of  other  days. 

The  darkness  falleth,  falleth, 
From  the  pinions  of  the  night, 

Hiding  the  sweet  cloud  pictures 
From  my  eager,  thirsty  sight ; 

But  in  my  soul  their  beauty 
Shall  never  more  decay, 

And  from  my  life  their  sweetness 
Shall  never  pass  away. 


20      THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 


THE  LACE-MAKER. 

IN  and  out,  and  around  about, 

Over  the  bobbins  the  white  threads  flew  ; 
Loop  by  loop  the  delicate  mesh. 

Leaf  by  leaf  the  tracery  grew. 

Dark  and  dreary  the  dismal  room  : 
Scarcely  a  glimpse  of  the  sunny  sky, 

Hardly  a  sound  from  the  street  below 
Reached  her  ears  where  she  sat  so  high. 

Her  hair  in  the  sun  was  golden  brown, 

In  the  shade  a  glossy  chestnut  red, 
And  it  lay  a  mass  of  wavy  light 

Coiled  round  the  small  and  classic  head. 

Tiny  hands  and  form  petite, 

Coarse  stuff  gown  such  as  peasants  wear — 
A  queen  could  not  with  a  sweeter  grace 

Have  sat  in  the  straight  and  high-backed  chair. 


THE  LACE-MAKER.  21 

Still  as  she  wove  the  pattern  grew — 

Feathery  ferns  and  bracken  leaves, 
Water-lilies  with  trailing  stems, 

Nodding  grasses,  and  wheaten  sheaves. 

Still  she  wove,  while  her  brown  eyes  filled 
With  tears,  as  her  free  thoughts  sped  away 

To  mossy  banks  in  shady  woods, 

Where  her  childish  feet  were  wont  to  stray  ; 

To  ponds  where  the  water-lilies  grew, 

By  the  gray  old  mill  where  she  used  to  roam  ; 

And  fields  of  nodding  and  waving  grain, 

Where  the  reapers  chanted  their  harvest  home. 

Still  she  wove,  and  the  rare  design 
Was  a  wreath  of  roses  wet  with  dew, 

And  the  skillful  fingers  deftly  wrought, 
While  thread  by  thread  the  petals  grew. 

But  the  tears  fell  fast,  and  she  sobbed  aloud, 

For  as  she  wrought,  the  roses  fair 
Were  such  as  a  loving  hand  had  placed 

In  days  of  old  on  her  shining  hair. 


22     THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

His  trembling  fingers  scarce  could  hold 
The  fragrant  spray  with  its  pearly  dew. 

Was  it  the  echo  of  words  he  said  ? 
"  Darling,  I'll  be  tender  and  true." 

Did  the  grave  yawn  wide  its  black  abyss  ? 

Was  it  the  cold  world  came  between  ? 
Or,  from  the  dim  and  shadowy  past, 

Is  it  the  fragment  of  a  dream  ? 

Poor  tired  heart,  that  has  borne  so  well 
Its  burden  of  grief,  and  fear,  and  wrong  ! 

Eyes  that  have  wept  such  bitter  tears  ! 
Tiny  hands  that  have  toiled  so  long  ! 

The  task  is  done — the  roses  fair 

And  feathery  leaves  she  downward  casts, 

Blend  in  a  mass  confused  and  wild — 
In  sleep  she  forgets  the  sorrowful  past. 

In  her  dreams  she  murmurs  soft  and  low 
The  story  that's  old,  yet  ever  new  ; 

A  step  comes  bounding  up  the  stair — 
"  Darling,  I'll  be  tender  and  true." 


THE  LACE-MAKER.  23 

The  brown  eyes  open  in  sweet  surprise, 
Scarce  she  credits  the  marvelous  tale  ; 

But  the  roses  fair  and  the  lilies  white 
Lie  soft  and  pure  on  her  bridal  veil. 


24      THANKSGIVING,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


MY  PICTURE. 

IN  a  sunny  smiling  valley 
Where  the  river,  singing  ever, 

In  a  joyous  measure  hastens  on  its  pathway  to  the 
sea, 

There's  a  picture,  rare  and  olden, 
That  in  all  its  beauty  golden 

Comes  in  hours  of  doubt  and  sorrow  like  a  benison 
to  me. 

By  the  swiftly-flowing  river, 
Where  the  sunbeams  leap  and  quiver, 
Stands  an  aged  oak  outspreading  all  its  branches  far 
and  wide  ; 

And  about  its  roots  unseemly 
Softest  mosses  growing  greenly, 

Spreading  in  their  emerald  beauty,  close  down  to  the 
water's  side. 


MY  PICTURE.  25 

Daisies  yellow,  nodding  clover, 
Dot  the  meadow  grasses  over, 

Lilies  blooming  in  the  sunshine  flecked  with  spots  of 
crimson  red  ; 

And,  uprising  from  the  meadow, 
Bright  in  sunlight,  dark  in  shadow, 
Orchards  waving  cool  and  shady,  and  the  blue  sky 
overhead. 

Oh,  the  mountains,  grand  and  hoary  ! 
Never  ancient  song  or  story, 

With  its  most  romantic  legends,  so  my  deepest  being 
thrills, 

As  the  strong  and  rugged  beauty, 
Like  th'  unswerving  path  of  duty, 
Grand,  and  glorious,  and  solemn,  of  my  own  loved 
native  hills. 

On  the  mossy  bank  reclining, 
Through  the  branches  intertwining, 
I  can  catch  the  shining  glimmer  of  the  ripples  as  they 
play  ; 


26      THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

And  can  watch  the  green  trees  waving, 
And  the  fleecy  cloudlets  laving 

In  their  light  the  mountain  summits  where  the  dark 
ling  shadows  stray. 

Oh  !  had  I  an  artist's  finger, 
With  what  happiness  I'd  linger, 

Over  every  light  and  shade  that  of  my  picture  forms  a 
part ; 

But  I  carry  it  unbroken, 
Nature's  own  eternal  token 

Of  her  sympathy  and  kindness,  deeply  painted  on  my 
heart. 


ORIGIN  OF  THE  LILIES  OF  THE   VALLE  Y. 


ORIGIN  OF  THE  LILIES  OF  THE  VALLEY. 

BACK  from  the  gleaming  Dover  sands. 

Where  the  sunbeam  scorches  the  shingly  strands ; 

Back  from  the  softly-lapping  reach 

Of  the  tide,  as  it  crawls  to  the  shelving  beach  ; 

Back  from  the  sullen,  angry  roar 

Of  the  white-capped  waves  that  beat  the  shore  ; 

Shut  in  by  the  hills  that  tower  so  high 

On  every  side  'twixt  earth  and  sky, 

A  valley  nestles,  hid  like  a  bird 

In  its  leafy  nest,  or  a  loving  word 

Deep  in  a  heart  by  sorrow  broken, 

Cherished  with  tears,  as  a  precious  token, 

That  tho'  the  world  may  its  grief  forget, 

Kindness  in  some  soul  lingers  yet. 

The  grassy  meadow  is  starred  with  flowers 
That  open  and  close  to  mark  the  hours  ; 


28      THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

In  the  sun  rays  bright  the  painted  gems 
Sparkle  like  myriad  diadems  ; 
Waving  branches  above  the  brook 
Bending,  as  in  a  mirror  look, 
Nodding  quieily  to  the  fair 
And  graceful  image  reflected  there. 
Surely  was  never  so  sweet  a  spot, 
Far  from  the  world,  by  the  world  forgot. 

But  if  the  valley  by  day  seem  bright, 
How  wondrous  is  it  by  pale  moonlight ! 
A  thousand  times  rarer  its  beauties  seem 
Glistening  under  that  silvery  sheen. 
The  waters  tinkle  like  silver  bells — 
Low  whispers  sigh  from  the  distant  dells — 
There  are  spells  and  charms  on  every  hand  ; 
'Tis  a  spot  for  elves — a  faiiy  land. 

Long  years  ago,  on  a  moonlit  night, 
When  the  valley  shone  with  a  radiance  bright 
As  the  rays  that  shot  from  the  silver  veil 
Of  the  wondrous  prophet  of  Eastern  tale  ; 


ORIGIN  OF  THE  LILIES  OF  THE   VALLE  Y.      29 

While  the  wind  harp's  music  was  low  and  sweet, 
The  moments  passing  on  noiseless  feet, 
Each  marked  by  the  opening  of  some  rare  flower, 
The  cereus  bloomed — 'twas  the  midnight  hour. 
Straightway  the  air  seemed  full  of  sound 
From  every  nook  in  the  hills  around, 
From  every  grotto  and  bosky  dell, 
From  secret  niche  in  blossoming  bell  ; 
With  step  so  light,  not  a  single  blade 
Bent  to  show  where  a  foot  had  strayed  ; 
Nor  a  drop  of  dew  that  had  spirkled  bright 
Was  brushed  by  gossamer  garments  light ; 
With  melody  not  of  earth,  like  the  strains 
That  echo  in  sleep  over  dreamland's  plains  ; 
Bathed  in  a  strange  and  shimmering  light, 
The  fairy  folk  came  to  their  festal  night. 

Tiny  sprres  like  a  thistle  bloom — 
Drapery  light  as  a  waving  plume — 
Elfin  forms  like  the  feathery  down 
Of  the  dandelion's  seedling  crown  : 


30      THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

Full  many  a  stately  minuet 

They  must  walk  ere  the  moon  shall  set : 

Full  many  a  waltz  of  maddest  glee, 

Full  many  a  galop  de  revelrie. 

Fairy  lingers  close  entwined, 

They  float  like  a  breath  of  summer  wind  : 

And  hark  !  on  the  air  rings  a  chorus  gay — 

'Tis  the  drinking  song  of  the  elves  at  play. 

Elf  and  sprite 

From  near  and  far 
Dancing,  singing, 

"Neath  moon  and  star  ; 
Fill  to  the  brim 

Your  goblets  bright  ; 
Drink  to  the  joy 

Of  our  festal  night. 
Ha!  Ha! 

We  must  away. 
Dance,  dance, 

Till  the  break  of  day. 


ORIGIN  OF  THE  LILIES  OF  THE   VALLE  Y.      3 1 

Never  a  care 

That  mortals  know 
Clouds  our  path 

As  we  singing  go. 
Fairy  folk 

Are  always  free  ; 
Fill  up — drink 

To  our  revelry. 
Ha!  Ha! 

We  must  away. 
Dance,  dance, 

Till  the  break  of  day. 


In  the  moon's  soft  rays  their  goblets  gleamed, 
Each  cup  like  a  line  of  silver  seemed  ; 
They  drained  them  deep,  then  tossed  them  high, 
As  to  catch  the  glow  from  the  midnight  sky  ; 
Caught  them  again  ere  they  reached  the  ground, 
And  hung  them  trembling  on  boughs  around. 
Then  again  they  danced,  and  again  they  sang, 
And  again  the  silver  goblets  rang  ; 


32      THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

Surely  never  were  fairy  folk  in  plight 
More  madly  gay  than  are  these  to-night. 

But  see  !  In  the  east  one  rosy  gleam  ; 

It  rests  on  hill  and  vale  and  stream. 

A  crimson  glow  over  all  is  cast : 

The  morning  breaks — the  night  is  past. 

There's  a  sound  like  a  coming  storm  wind's  moan, 

Or  a  rush  of  wings — and  the  elves  are  gone. 

Each  leaf  and  flower,  each  drop  of  dew, 

Sparkled  with  morning  beauty  new. 

Nothing  remained  of  the  scene  so  gay 

To  tell  that  the  elves  had.  been  at  play. 

Yet  stay  !  still  trembling  the  goblets  hung, 

As  from  fairy  fingers  lightly  flung  ; 

In  their  eager  haste  to  leave  the  spot 

The  tiny  goblets  were  quite  forgot. 

A  little  child  came  by  that  day, 
Roaming  wild  in  his  restless  play. 
He  saw  the  goblets  trembling  stand, 
And  touched  them  soft  with  his  tiny  hand. 
"  O  pretty  flowers  !  what  can  they  be  ? 
They're  lilies  of  the  vale,"  said  he. 


33 


IF. 

IF  I  could  paint  you  a  picture, 

Such  as  in  dreams  I  see. 
Not  one  of  the  great  art  teachers 

Could  ever  compete  with  me. 

I'd  steal  the  gold  from  the  sunset, 
The  azure  from  heaven's  own  blue, 

And  the  roseate  tints  from  the  dawning, 
When  the  morn  peeps  blushing  through  ; 

And  looking  out  from  the  canvas. 

A  pair  of  blue-gray  eyes 
Should  answer  your  questioning  glances 

With  an  eager,  sweet  surprise. 

A  low,  broad,  childish  forehead, 

The  hair  brushed  smoothly  down — 

A  hint  of  gold  in  the  sunlight, 
In  the  shade  a  chestnut  brown. 


34      THANKSGIVING,  AND    OTHER  POEMS. 

A  shy  mouth,  arching  and  drooping, 

So  sensitive  to  a  word  ; 
That  laughs  in  careless  gladness, 

Or  trembles  when  tears  are  stirred. 

I  have  painted  a  word  picture — 

The  portrait  of  a  face 
Fair  with  all  outward  seeming, 

Pure  with  all  inward  grace. 

And  yet  this  little  child  face, 

Simple  as  it  may  seem, 
Is  rare  with  a  soulful  beauty, 

That  comes  but  in  a  dream. 


MARGUERITE.  35 


MARGUERITE. 

"HE  loves  me."     Pretty  floweret, 

With  petals  soft  and  white, 
Say,  were  you  sleeping  when  he  came 

Across  the  fields  last  night  ? 

We  were  walking  in  the  gloaming  ; 

He  left  me  at  the  bars  ; 
Did  you  hear  the  words  he  whispered 

Under  the  quiet  stars  ? 

"He  loves  me  not."     Oh  daisy, 

You  would  not  cruel  be  ; 
There  was  no  other  maiden 

To  bear  him  company. 

You  grew  beside  the  footpath  ; 

He  brushed  you  passing  by  ; 
You  must  have  heard  what  name  he  breathed 

In  that  unconscious  sigh. 


36      THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

"  He  loves  me."     Snowy  blossom, 

I  knew  you'd  not  deceive  : 
A  voice  so  pure  and  charming 

Speaks  what  one  must  believe. 

But  men  are  so  deceitful, 

One  must  not  trust,  they  say  ; 

But  you'd  trust,  daisy,  would  you  not, 
His  words  of  yesterday? 

"  He  loves  me  not."     Sweet  daisy, 
Did  you  look  up  in  his  eyes, 

And  were  their  glances  false  or  true, 
Under  the  quiet  skies  ? 

Ah  me  !    Was  ever  maiden 

In  such  uncertain  plight  ? 
How  shall  I, — Hush  !  he's  coming  ! 

What  will  he  say  to-night  ? 


7  HE  CHAPEL  IN  THE  FOREST.      37 


THE  CHAPEL  IN  THE  FOREST. 

ALL  wreathed  in  leafy  greenness 
The  chapel  door  stands  wide, 

Its  strong  supporting  columns 
The  oaks  that  grow  beside. 

No  foot-fall  sounds  within  it 
On  marble  porch  or  aisle  ; 

Up  from  its  floor  of  mosses 
Sweet  blue-eyed  violets  smile. 

Its  stained  windows  shimmer 

Rare  as  the  gift  of  kings, 
When  through  the  leafy  branches 

Fair  night  the  moonlight  brings. 

The  winds,  its  mighty  organ, 
Now  murmuring  sweet  and  low  ; 

Now  sweeping  all  before  them, 
As  life's  strong  passions  go. 


38      THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

The  birds,  its  sweet  choir  voices, 
They  chant  a  matin  song  ; 

Or  warble  vesper  chorals 

When  evening  shades  grow  long. 

No  white-robed  priest  stands  waiting 
With  book  and  bell  to  intone  : 

Low  in  the  forest  chapel 
I  kneel  to  God  alone. 

My  lips  no  words  can  utter, 
But  my  eyes  are  full  of  tears, 

And  my  heart  aches  with  its  burden, 
Of  doubts,  and  hopes,  and  fears. 

So,  trusting  and  believing, 

What  peace  shall  crown  my  day, 

When  in  God's  forest  chapel, 
I  kneel  to  weep  and  pray. 


LONGING. 


LONGING. 

OH  stately  ship  !  slow  sailing  from  the  bay, 
Move  slowly  on  thy  path — one  moment  wait, 

And  take  a  message  from  my  longing  soul, 
Ere  yet  you  pass  beyond  the  Golden  Gate. 

So  smooth  the  ripples  play  around  your  prow, 
So  clearly  blue  the  smiling  sky  above, 

So  soft  the  winds  that  gently  fan  my  brow, 
Thou'lt  bear  it  safely  to  the  land  I  lo>e. 

Tis  this  :  I  miss  the  grandeur  of  its  hills, 

Its  sunny  vales,  and  brooklets  mad  with  glee, 

Its  long  bright  days  full  of  all  calm  delights, 
And  nights  replete  with  beauty's  harmony. 

I  miss  its  mighty  rivers'  rush  and  flow, 
Its  foaming  torrents,  sparkling  waterfalls  ; 

And,  rising  in  their  solemn  majesty, 
Imperious  and  grand,  its  granite  walls. 


39 


4O      THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

I  miss  the  flowers  that  grew  in  every  nook, 
Tho'  others  may  be  thought  by  far  more  fair  ; 

The  yellow  jewels  nodding  by  the  brook 
To  me  are  dearer  than  these  blossoms  rare. 

Oh    white-winged   ship !    God    speed  thee   on    thy 

way  ! 
Grant    thee    fair    breezes,    calm    the    treacherous 

main  ; 

So  longingly  my  anxious  heart  will  wait, 
My  sad  eyes  watch  thy  coming  once  again. 

Bring  me  a  breath  from  off  my  native  hills, 
Fill  thy  sails  full  of  my  free  mountain  air, 

Catch  the  rare  tints  of  Eastern  sunset  skies, 
Paint  on  thy  canvas  scenes  so  bright  and  fair. 

Come  to  me  laden  with  the  breath  of  flowers 
That  used  to  fill  my  tiny  baby  hands  ; 

Bring  me  a  branch  from  the  old  maple  tree 
Beneath  whose  shade  the  little  cottage  stands. 


LONGING. 


Kind  angels  guard  thee  on  thy  trackless  way, 
And  keep  me  safe,  who  for  thy  coming  wait, 

Till  I  shall  see  thy  swift  sail  once  again 

Pass,  homeward  bound,  within  the  Golden  Gate. 


42      THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 


MY  SECRET. 

IN  the  deep  red  heart  of  a  queenly  rose 
I  breathed  my  secret  with  many  a  sigh; 

The  velvet  petals  with  dewdrops  shone, 
But  they  only  nodded  royally. 

Then  I  whispered  low  to  a  zephyr  light, 
"  I  love  my  love,  but  she  loves  not  me  ;  " 

But  the  balmy  breeze  witR  odors  sweet 
Swept  softly  onward  to  reach  the  sea. 

I  cried  to  a  bird  on  a  waving  bough, 

"Know  you  my  love?  "     In  a  trilling  tone 

He  chirped  and  chittered,  "I  seek  my  mate," 
And  left  me  once  more  sadly  alone. 

Then  I  caught  the  strain  of  a  glorious  song, 
And  I  gave  my  secret  to  music's  sway  ; 

But  the  strain  grew  sad,  and  the  measure  wild, 
And  died  in  the  twilight  dim  away. 


MY  SECRET. 


43 


It  rose  on  the  wings  of  my  evening  prayer, 
As  I  lowly  knelt  in  the  sunset's  glow. 

Did  the  angels  whisper  the  answer  back  ? 
"Oh,  fearful  heart,  go  tell  her  so." 

Then  I  kissed  it  down  on  her  ripe  red  lips, 
I  looked  in  the  depths  of  her  smiling  eyes, 

And  I  clasped  her  close  with  a  strong  true  arm, 
While  my  glad  heart  laughed  in  its  sweet  surprise. 

Oh,  rose  and  bird  !     Oh,  breeze  and  song  ! 

I  care  no  more  that  ye  scornful  be  ; 
My  soul  is  full  of  all  calm  content, 

I  love  my  love,  and  my  love  loves  me. 


44      THANKSGIVING,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


ASLEEP. 

HUSH  !  winds  that  oft  so  coldly,  rudely  blow, 
Breathe  soft  as  zephyrs  o'er  a  summer  lake  ; 

Come  from  the  south  with  sighing  sweet  and  low  ; 
My  heart's  asleep — I  tremble  lest  it  wake. 

Ye  birds  that  carol  loud  your  joyous  song, 
Twitter  it  low  to-day  among  the  leaves  ; 

And  whet  not  once  your  brightly  gleaming  scythes, 
Ye  sturdy  reapers  of  the  golden  sheaves. 

Oh,  laughing  brooklet  !  linger  not  I  pray  ; 

My  heart  stirs  strangely  in  its  restless  sleep  ; 
But  hasten  on  thy  mad  tumultuous  way — 

If  thou  should'st  waken  it,  it  would  but  weep. 

I  could  not  bear  that  it  should  moan  and  sigh, 
And  beat  with  longings  all  unsatisfied  ; 

I  could  not  bear  that  it  should  tell  me  oft, 
"  Life  is  so  dark,  I  would  that  I  had  died." 


ASLEEP.  45 

So  I  have  lulled  it  with  a  song  to  rest — 

Have  satisfied  it  with  a  promise  sweet, 
That  when  it  waken,  if  it  will  but  sleep, 

It  shall  find  life  more  noble  and  complete. 

Come,  gentle  flow'rets,  perfume  all  the  air — 

Fragrant  hepatica,  and  gentian  blue, 
Anemone,  and  snowy  lily  rare, 

And  sweet  wild  roses  sparkling  o'er  with  dew  ; 

That  so  its  slumber  may  be  long  and  deep — 
If  thou  a  fairy-land  of  sleep  canst  make, 

Filled  with  all  beauty  both  of  sound  and  sight, 
And  brightest  dreams,  it  will  not  care  to  wake. 

It  could  but  prove  my  promise  all  untrue  ; 

It  must  not  waken  till,  beyond  the  skies, 
We  meet  the  purer  and  the  truer  life 

In  store,  when  the  eternal  morn  shall  rise. 

Then  only  can  we  look  for  faith  and  trust, 

Friendship  sincere,  and  love  that's  true  and  strong. 

Here  we  can  only  weep,  and  hope,  and  pray, 

When  sorrow  makes  the  days  seem  dark  and  long. 


46      THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

So  wait  I  till  these  weary  days  are  o'er, 
And  the  fair  night,  in  all  its  glorious  dress, 

Precedes  the  dawning  of  that  brighter  morn, 
When  my  tired  heart  may  wake  to  happiness. 


A   PERFECT  DA  Y.  47 


A  PERFECT  DAY. 

THE  fleecy  clouds  lie  soft  against  the  blue, 
As  if  the  angels  o'er  the  sapphire  walls 
Lean  silent,  while  beneath  their  folded  wings 

There  comes  a  glint  of  glory  gleaming  through. 

The  balmy  air,  laden  with  odors  sweet, 
Blows  cool  and  freshening  from  the  distant  hills, 
While  the  soft  murmur  of  the  rustling  leaves 

Drops  lightly,  like  the  sound  of  dancing  feet. 

The  mountain  brook  comes  dashing  down  the  glen, 
While  graceful  ferns  and  golden  jewels  bright 
Mark  where  amid  the  silence  on  it  flows, 

Far  from  the  crowded  haunts  of  busy  men. 

From  out  the  orchards  spread  on  either  side 
The  rosy  fruit  peeps  through  the  glossy  leaves, 
And  the  blue  smoke  curls  gracefully  aloft, 

Where  the  old  farm-house  door  stands  open  wide. 


48      THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

The  sheaves  are  stacked  on  either  side  the  way, 
The  grain,  well  ripened,  waiting  to  be  stored, 
While  all  the  meadows,  flecked  with  blossoms  bright, 

Are  fragrant  with  the  scent  of  new-mown  hay. 

God's  benison,  descending  from  above, 
Rests  on  the  earth,  and  peace  fills  all  the  air  ; 
And  o'er  my  heart  the  gentle  influence  steals, 

The  chrism  of  a  pure  and  perfect  love. 

A  love  that  knows  no  change — that  feels  no  fear — 
That  looks  beyond  earth's  clouded,  dreary  night 
To  heavenly  days,  when  God's  eternal  smile 

Shall  make  each  perfect  morning  bright  and  clear. 


A   PICTURE. 


A  PICTURE. 

SHE  stood  below  me  where  the  vines 
Shadowed  the  face  so  wondrous  fair  ; 

The  glancing  sunbeam  left  a  ray 
Of  glory  on  her  golden  hair. 

Her  sweet  brown  eyes  looked  up  to  mine 
With  all  a  child's  simplicity  ; 

Yet  in  their  depths  I  fain  had  read 
More  than  a  passing  thought  of  me. 

The  tiny  hands  and  soft  white  arms 
Closely  the  trellis  work  entwine  : 

The  rosy  lips  hold  richer  feast 

Than  amber  clusters  from  the  vine. 

I  stooped  and  whispered,  soft  and  low, 
So  sacred  seemed  the  words  to  me, 

"  Kiss  me  !  "  I  shook  with  sudden  fear, 
And  then  I  waited,  trustfully. 
4 


49 


5Q      THANKSGIVING,  AND  OTHER   POEMS. 

Quick,  like  the  glow  of  early  morn, 

The  blushes  spread  o'er  cheek  and  brow  ; 

She  bends  that  fair  and  graceful  head — 
Those  brownest  eyes  are  dewy  now. 

And  then  she  raised  to  mine  the  lips 
That  should  be  mine  forever  more  ; 

And  all  the  earth,  and  air,  and  sky, 
Was  glorious  as  ne'er  before. 

Through  all  my  life,  in  good  or  ill, 
Till  hushed  in  silence  of  the  grave, 

My  lips  with  glad  delight  will  feel 
That  first  warm  kiss  my  darling  gave. 


ON  THE  DEA  TH  OF  A  PET  BIRD.  5  \ 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  PET  BIRD. 

THE  song  is  hushed,  and  the  singer 

Silent  forevermore  ; 
The  stillness  steals  upon  you, 

As  you  near  the  well-known  door. 

The  gilded  cage  in  the  window 
Swings  high  in  the  morning  air ; 

But  the  tiny  home  is  empty — 
There  is  no  birdling  there. 

No  yellow-throated  birdling, 
Whose  life  was  a  gush  of  song, 

That  pealed  like  joy-bells  ringing 
The  busy  days  along. 

Scarce  sadder  would  our  hearts  be, 

Scarce  heavier  with  care, 
Were  there  an  empty  cradle, 

Or  a  tiny  vacant  chair. 


52      THANKSGIVING,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

What  wonder  if  the  hot  tears 

Rise  fast  and  overflow, 
When  we  think  the  song  was  ended 

By  a  sudden  cruel  blow. 

Is  there  no  heaven  for  birdlings  ? 

No  land  of  blooming  flowers, 
Where  they  may  sing  forever, 

Through  happy  golden  hours  ? 

Surely  their  lives  and  sorrows 

Are  to  the  Father  known, 
Without  whom  not  one  sparrow 

Falls  to  the  ground  alone. 

So  fair  and  pure  our  birdlings, 

I  think  it  well  may  be 
The  strain  so  rudely  broken 

Shall  reach  eternity. 


ONLY. 


53 


ONLY. 

ONLY  a  memory  !     Yes,  'tis  true — 

A  memory  of  a  morning  fair, 
When  spring's  sweet  sunshine  kissed  the  earth, 

And  violets  perfumed  all  the  air. 

Only  a  memory  !     One  low  word, 

Earth,  air,  and  sky,  new  brightness  wore  ; 

And  lo  !  upon  my  girlish  hand 
A  ring  I  ne'er  had  worn  before. 

Only  a  memory  !     You  may  smile  ; 

You  think  the  tale  is  old,  I  ween  ; 
But  'twas  the  spring  of  life  and  love, 

And  I  ?     Why  I  was  just  sixteen. 

Only  a  memory  !     Even  now 

I  feel  the  hot  blood  flush  my  cheek 

As  I  recall  those  whispered  words, 

That  only  dreams  henceforth  may  speak. 


54      THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

Only  a  memory  !     Yet  I  sigh 

When  others  laugh  to  greet  the  spring  ; 
And  you  have  wondered  why  I  weep 

To  hear  the  earliest  robin  sing. 

Only  a  memory  !     Life  is  full 

Of  earnest  deeds,  not  vain  regrets  ; 

Yet  even  now  my  soul  grows  faint 
At  breath  of  woodland  violets. 

Some  time,  if  I  be  strong  and  true, 
Will  eager  tones  say  low  to  me, 

"  This  is  the  glad  fruition,  love  ; 
We  have  no  need  of  memorv." 


MEMORIES.  5  5 


MEMORIES. 

THANK  God  for  pleasant  memories  ; 

Through  the  dim  mist  of  tears 
The  saddened  eyes  behold  again 

The  joys  of  vanished  years. 

The  flowers  we  cherished  tenderly 

With  fondest  care  are  dead  ; 
But  o'er  the  paths  of  memory 

Their  fragrance  sweet  is  shed. 

The  songs  we  loved  are  ended  now, 
The  lips  that  sung  them  dumb  ; 

But  oh  !  how  often  to  the  soul 
Their  chiming  echoes  come. 

The  friends  we  knew,  but  meet  no  more  ; 

Ah  me  !  a  minor  tone 
Marks  the  sad  rhythm  of  those  lives 

That  battle  fate  alone. 


56      THANKSGIVING,  AND    OTHER   POEMS. 

How  sad,  without  a  gleam  of  hope, 

If  we  could  not  look  back, 
And  live  again  the  days  that  lie 

So  bright  in  memory's  track. 

But  hope  makes  glad  the  darkest  hour, 

And  by  her  light  we  see 
The  fairer  days  that  are  to  come, 

The  joys  that  yet  shall  be. 

We  linger  fondly  o'er  the  past, 
Each  happy  time  and  scene  ; 

Then  looking  forward,  we  forget 
The  dreariness  between. 


KATE  AND   1. 


57 


KATE  AND  I. 

'TWAS  'neath  the  blossoming  apple-tree, 

In  the  merry  month  of  May ; 
A  warm  wind  blew  from  the  southern  land, 
And  scattered  the  leaves  away. 
The  snowy  petals  rose, 
Far  in  the  quiet  sky, 

While  we  stood  and  watched  their  silent  flight, 
Kate  and  I. 

The  fair  round  moon  as  it  rose  that  night, 

And  shone  on  the  earth  below, 
Saw  loving  glances  in  hazel  eyes, 
And  a  crimson  cheek's  warm  glow  : 
Then  sweetest  kisses  fell — 

I'm  sure  no  one  was  by — 
And  \ve  were  watching  the  fair  moonlight, 
Kate  and  I. 


58      THANKSGIVING,  AND    OTHER  POEMS. 

Now  as  I  sit  in  my  cheerful  room, 

All  happily  pass  the  hours  : 
For  love  weaves  a  garland  for  every  day 
Of  the  sweetest  and  fairest  flowers. 
I  journey  not  alone, 

Another  form  is  nigh  : 
And  till  death  we  travel  cheerily  on, 
Kate  and  I. 


LEAFLETS. 


LEAFLETS. 

OUT  in  the  forest  lonely 

The  leaflets  are  dropping  down, 
Fluttering  slowly  earthward, 

Golden,  and  crimson,  and  brown. 

Fanned  by  the  soft  spring  zephyrs, 
Kissed  by  the  summer  sun, 

Chilled  by  the  winds  of  autumn, 
Their  bright  brief  life  is  done. 

My  darlings  !  my  lost  treasures  ! 

In  spring-time,  oh  !  how  fair, 
To  music  of  the  south  wind 

Ye  danced  in  balmy  air. 

And  my  tired  eye  grew  brighter, 
My  weary  soul  grew  strong, 

While  like  the  harp's  low  music 
Murmured  your  gentle  song. 


59 


60     THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

Now  must  we  part  forever  ? 

Oh,  mountains,  grand  and  tall, 
Your  gorgeous  robes  of  autumn 

Seem  like  a  funeral  pall. 

The  moaning,  sighing  north  wind, 
Sweeping  through  rocky  glen, 

Beats  with  my  heart's  sad  measure 
My  darling's  requiem. 

Glorious  in  dying  splendor, 
Oh,  changing  leaflets  dear, 

My  heart  sighs  for  your  beauty 
In  hours  of  winter  drear. 

And  oft,  when  storm-clouds  gather 

I  lift  my  heart  in  prayer, 
That  the  days  of  my  life's  autumn 

May  be,  like  yours,  most  fair. 


LOVE'S   TEACHING.  6 1 


LOVE'S  TEACHING. 

TEACH  me  a  new  name,  darling, 

One  that  is  tender  and  true, 
Full  of  the  heart's  own  music, 

And  worthy  even  of  you. 

It  must  be  bright  as  the  sunshine, 

Clear  as  the  summer  sky, 
And  fragrant  as  rarest  perfume 

The  balmy  breeze  wafts  by. 

It  must  be  like  your  own  true  nature, 

Noble,  and  grand,  and  free  ; 
With  a  power  like  the  storm-king's  voices, 

And  a  murmur  of  the  sea. 

It  must  have  a  sound  of  music, 
The  breath  of  a  tearful  prayer, 

As  I  call  my  heart  to  worship 
Its  idol  enthroned  there. 


62      THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

It  must  be  soft  and  gentle, 
Like  the  falling  of  the  snow  ; 

But  ever  warm  and  ruddy, 

Like  the  crimson  fire-light's  glow. 

So  if,  in  all  your  learning, 
One  such  a  name  you  know, 

Teach  me  to  know  it,  darling, 
That  I  may  call  you  so. 

But  if  in  earthly  naming 

There  be  none  so  deep  and  high, 

I'll  ask  the  listening  angels 
To  whisper  it  from  the  sky. 


O  FAITHFUL  HEART!  63 


O  FAITHFUL  HEART ! 

WHAT  tho'  the  winter  snow  lies  deep, 
And  all  the  fairest  blossoms  sleep  ? 
The  spring  will  come  with  sun  and  rain, 
And  all  the  earth  will  smile  again. 

O  faithful  heart  ! 

Love  on,  trust  on. 

What  tho'  the  clouds  so  darkly  frown, 
And  pitiless  the  rain  comes  down  ? 
They  soon  will  part,  and  heaven's  own  blue 
Soft  and  serene  will  shine  on  you. 

O  faithful  heart  ! 

Love  on,  trust  on. 

What  tho'  in  dreams  you  live  again 
Long  weary  hours  of  grief  and  pain  ? 


64     THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

Lo,  see  !  the  morning  breaks,  and  joy 
Will  soon  each  hateful  dream  destroy. 

O  faithful  heart ! 

Love  on,  trust  on. 

What  tho'  you  long  for  tender  tone, 
And  loving  glances  all  your  own  ? 
That  longing  rises  through  the  air, 
And  answer  comes  to  each  sweet  prayer. 

O  faithful  heart  ! 

Love  on,  trust  on. 

For,  far  beyond  the  glowing  skies, 
The  holy  land  of  promise  lies  ; 
And  each  true  heart  will  find  the  bliss, 
The  rapture  that's  denied  in  this. 

O  faithful  heart ! 

Love  on,  trust  on. 


ETCHINGS.  65 


ETCHINGS. 

APPLE-BLOSSOMS  sweet  and  fair, 
Once  I  wore  them  in  my  hair  : 
Mem'ry  bells  ring  silently, 
When  I  think  who  placed  them  there. 

Lilies  of  the  valley,  say, 
Can  I  e'er  forget  the  day 
When  he  whispered,  soft  and  low, 
"  Darling,  you  are  pure  as  they  "  ? 

Star  forget-me-nots  so  blue, 
Would  I  had  been  ever  true  ! 
"You  have  stolen,"  once  he  said, 
"  For  your  eyes  their  heavenly  hue." 

Cherries  ripe  and  rosy  red, 
"They  are  like  your  lips,"  he  said  ; 
But  the  ripened  cherries  fell, 
And  the  summer  days  are  dead. 
5 


66       THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

Over  all  the  winter  snows 

Silently  and  softly  fell, 
Clothing  in  a  mantle  white 

Every  bud  and  lily  bell. 

So  the  summer  of  my  heart 

Yields  to  winter's  frost  and  snow  ; 

But  upon  the  canvas  oft 

Memory's  pictures  come  and  go  ; 

And  I  fancy  we  shall  find, 

When  we  reach  some  happier  sphere, 
Angel  hands  have  hung  them  there, 

Where  the  light  is  pure  and  clear. 


LEON  A.  67 


LEONA. 

CHILD  of  the  darksome  forest, 

Where  art  thou  fled  ? 
The  wreath  I  wove  for  thy  glorious  brow 

Is  faded — dead. 
The  moon  comes  out  from  the  fleecy  cloud, 

And  shines  on  the  silver  sea  ; 
Leona,  my  pride,  my  spirit  bride, 

Come  back  to  me. 

Maiden  with  jetty  tresses, 

And  soft  brown  eyes, 
Hast  thou  left  me  here  to  pine  alone, 

And  sought  the  skies  ? 
The  violet  blooms  in  the  shady  dell, 

And  the  daisy  sleeps  on  the  lea  ; 
Leona,  my  pride,  my  spirit  bride, 

Come  back  to  me. 


68     THANKSGIVING,  AND    OTHER  POEMS. 

My  lonely  heart  is  crying 

In  vain  for  thee  : 
Only  the  wind's  low  sighing 

Answereth  me. 
The  clouds  are  parting — thy  form  I  view — 

Come  hither,  mine  own,  to  me  : 
Leona,  my  pride,  my  spirit  bride, 

I  come  to  thee. 


A   RETROSPECT.  69 


A   RETROSPECT. 

OH  eyes  that  weep  such  bitter  tears  ! 
Once,  long  ago,  in  happier  years, 

I  deemed  thy  brightness  ne'er  could  fade  ; 
I  fondly  thought  each  coming  day 
Would  find  thee  ever  bright  and  gay, 

Nor  sorrow  e'er  thy  glances  shade. 

Oh  fingers,  soft,  and  white,  and  fair  ! 
I  little  thought  that  grief  and  care 

Would  cause  thee  so  to  intertwine  ; 
Or  cling  so  closely  to  my  breast, 
To  still  within  this  wild  unrest, 

This  longing,  aching  soul  of  mine. 

Oh  heart  that  loved  so  fond  and  true  ! 
I  dreamed,  as  many  others  do, 
Thy  joyous  life  was  wisely  given  ; 


70      THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

Those  careless  hours  of  sunny  youth, 
When  first  I  pledged  thy  fondest  truth, 
Seemed  like  a  foretaste  here  of  Heaven. 

Too  soon  came  sorrow,  care,  and  pain, 
My  heart  will  ne'er  be  young  again, 

Nor  feel  the  joy  it  used  to  know  ; 
Only  beyond  the  far-off  skies 
I'll  meet,  with  smiles  of  sweet  surprise, 

Such  bliss  as  once  was  mine  below. 


MY  KING. 


MY  KING. 

MY  monarch  wears  no  jeweled  crown, 
No  rubies  red,  nor  diamonds  rare  ; 

Only  upon  his  royal  brow 

Some  curling  waves  of  chestnut  hair. 

No  ermined  robes  of  rank  and  state 
My  monarch's  manly  form  adorn  ; 

Only  the  quiet  ease  and  grace 
Of  noblemen  by  nature  born. 

Within  the  hand  that  presses  mine 
Is  held  no  badge  of  high  behest, 

His  only  sceptre  is  his  smile, 
Type  of  the  law  I  love  the  best. 

He  sits  upon  no  dazzling  height, 
No  courtiers  around  him  bend  ; 

His  throne  is  in  my  faithful  heart — 
My  loving  thoughts  his  titled  friend. 


72       THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

No  stern  decree  of  monarch's  power 
To  traitor  subject  e'er  is  given, 

Only  the  glance  of  soul-lit  eyes, 

Within  whose  depths  I  find  my  heaven. 

Oh,  noble  monarch  !     Better  far 
To  know  one  heart  will  loyal  be, 

Than  reign  unloved,  mistrusted,  feared, 
'Mid  hollow  pomp  and  revelry. 

Oh,  happy  heart  that  owns  thy  sway, 
What  joyous  praise  my  lips  shall  sing  ! 

While  every  blissful  moment  shows 
How  grandly  noble  is  my  king. 


MY   QUEEN. 


MY  QUEEN. 

I  WORSHIP  daily  at  a  shrine, 

Tis  not  in  old  cathedrals  grand, 

Nor  where  tall  minster  towers  arise, 
Or  humbler  sacred  fanes  may  stand. 

No  crucifix  is  there  upreared  ; 

No  beads  with  Aves  set  between  ; 
My  altar  is  my  hearthstone  bright — 

I  pay  my  homage  to  its  queen. 

Fairer  is  she  than  sylph  or  fay, 
Tender  as  love  itself  to  me, 

When,  at  each  close  of  busy  day, 
She  softly  sits  upon  my  knee. 

Her  hair  as  chestnut's  coat  is  brown, 
Waving  in  shades  of  burnished  gold  ; 

And  oh  !  the  light  that,  soft  and  fair, 
Lies  hidden  in  each  shining  fold. 


74      THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

Her  brow  is  pure  as  evening's  sky, 
And  calm  as  lakelet's  gentle  breast, 

When  on  its  bosom  tranquilly 
The  water-lilies  sink  to  rest. 

Her  eyes — oh,  sweetest,  tenderest  eyes  ! 

My  soul  into  their  depths  can  fall, 
Can  sink  and  lose  itself,  and  then 

Still  find  itself  best  loved  of  all. 

To  those  dear  orbs  of  azure  hue 

Love's  holiest  missions  here  are  given  : 

Within  their  changeful,  melting  blue 
I  catch  my  first  rare  glimpse  of  Heaven. 

The  sea-shell's  rarest,  faintest  pink 

Plays  o'er  her  cheek  so  smoothly  round  ; 

Her  lips  are  ripe  with  kisses  sweet  ; 
Her  voice  is  music's  thrilling  sound. 

Her  strong  true  heart  beats  all  for  me  ; 

The  same  when  joy's  bright  numbers  roll, 
Or  sorrow's  waves  flow  drearily, 

Or  dash  in  madness  o'er  the  soul. 


MY   QUEEN.  7 

Oh,  kingdom  blest  !     Oh,  beauteous  queen  ! 

Could  I  thy  praises  fitly  sing, 
My  words  should  bud  on  time's  cold  shore, 

But  blossom  in  eternal  spring. 


76      THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS 


A  RAINY  NIGHT. 

DARK  is  the  night  and  drear  ! 

The  heavy  drops  of  rain 
Fall  fast  and  faster  still 

Upon  my  window  pane. 

No  moon,  no  stars,  to-night — 
I  drop  my  curtain  down  ; 

The  very  lamp's  dim  light 
Seems  almost  like  a  frown. 

Alone  !  how  fast  they  come, 
Thoughts  of  the  days  gone  by, 

Trooping  through  memory's  halls, 
A  silent  company. 

Oh,  loves  of  long  ago, 

Stand  back  !    I  cannot  bear 

To  see  ye,  pale  and  still, 
Standing  before  me  there. 


A   RAINY  NIGHT. 

What  tho'  'twas  childish  love  ? 

Has  love  of  riper  years 
Been  half  so  strong  and  true, 

So  free  from  doubts  and  fears  ? 

O  lips  that  I  have  kissed  ! 

Tis  well  ye  too  are  come 
To  mock  me  with  your  smile  : 

Before  you  I  am  dumb. 

Strong  hands  that  I  have  clasped, 
I  feel  your  pressure  now  : 

Rest  ye  forgivingly 
Upon  my  saddened  brow. 

Reproach  me  not,  ye  eyes 
Whose  depths  I  never  knew  : 

Your  light  was  once  my  heaven — 
Would  I  had  been  as  true. 

Hark  !  how  the  rain  comes  down  ! 

The  wind  is  moaning  wild, 
A  requiem  for  the  days 

Strong,  true  and  undented. 


77 


78      THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

Tears  ?  Well,  I'll  let  them  fall- 
Perhaps  they'll  leave  more  bright 

The  eyes  whose  depths  are  stirred 
This  rainy,  dreary  night. 


MY  HEAVEN.  79 


MY  HEAVEN. 

WHERE  is  my  heaven  ?    Not  in  the  realms  of  ether, 
Where  fleecy  clouds  lie  soft  against  the  blue, 

And  where  at  even-tide  the  golden  glory 

From  angel  wings  comes  softly  shining  through. 

Not  in  the  joyous  ring  of  baby  laughter, 
Or  flowing  ringlets  to  the  breezes  cast : 

Not  in  the  memories,  sorrowful  and  tender, 
That  fill  the  soul  from  out  the  shadowy  past. 

Not  in  the  sheen  of  rarest  gems  that  glitter 
On  beauty's  brow,  or  tremble  on  the  sight 

In  caverns  deep,  like  the  pale  stars  that  twinkle 
Serene  and  still  upon  the  brow  of  night. 

Not  in  the  far-off  land  of  the  hereafter, 

Where  loved  ones  wait  us  who  have  gone  before  ; 
Nor  where  the  echoes  of  the  grand  Te  Deum 

Sound  down  the  arches  from  th'  eternal  shore. 


go      THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

Not  in  all  richest  gifts  of  earthly  naming, 
Nor  any  thought  of  bliss  beyond  the  skies  ; 

Not  in  glad  hopes  their  full  fruition  claiming. 
My  only  heaven  is  in  my  darling's  eyes. 


DREAMING.  gl 


DREAMING. 

OH,  the  days  of  long  ago, 
When  rny  heart  beat  to  the  glow 

Of  hopes  that  greet  us  only  in  our  youth's  bright  day  ; 
When  every  morn  was  bright, 
And  the  stars  shone  every  night, 

And  every  month  was  joyous  as  the  laughing  May. 

Oh,  the  jewels  by  the  brook, 
In  the  quiet,  shady  nook, 

How  I  loved  the  pleasant  corner  where  my  ear-drops 
grew. 

Never  pearls  that  bound  my  hair 
Seemed  to  me  one  half  so  fair 

As  the  graceful  golden  blossoms  that  my  childhood 
knew. 

Oh,  the  elm-tree  branches  wide, 
Drooping  o'er  the  sparkling  tide, 
6 


g2      THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

Casting   shadows  on   its  surface  when  the   sun  was 
high  : 

Oft  I  lay  beneath  their  shade, 
Watching  how  the  shadows  played, 
While  the  fleecy  clouds  were  sailing  'cross  the  azure 
sky. 

Oh,  the  tender  words  of  love 
Whispered  in  the  silent  grove, 

When  the  moon  was  beaming  brightly  on  the  earth 
below  : 

How  they  echo  in  the  heart, 
Till  the  burning  tear-drops  start, 
While   memory  brings  the  accents  I  no  more  may 
know. 

Clouds  are  oft  around  my  path, 

But  one  joy  my  bosom  hath, 
And  many  times  has  sadness  fled  before  the  glow 

Of  the  peace  that  fills  my  heart, 

When  I  sit  and  muse  apart, 
On  the  happy,  happy  days  of  the  long  ago. 


TO  BELLA.  83 


TO  BELLA. 

WOULD  you  know  what  you  are  like  ? 

When  the  wine  begins  to  flow, 
When  the  bubbles  sparkling  break, 

And  we  cry,  "  Vive  la  Cliquot  !  " 

Just  the  first  warm  rosy  glow — 
'Tis  the  life  of  the  champagne  : 

Gone,  like  youth's  first,  freshest  bloom, 
It  can  never  come  again. 

In  the  soft,  still  summer  morn, 
Ere  the  sun  begins  to  shine, 

There's  a  tint  in  all  the  east, 
Tender,  roseate,  divine  ; 

Just  a  hint  of  brighter  hue — 
Light  that  ushers  in  the  day  : 

On  the  cool,  fresh  morning  air, 
Quick  it  vanishes  away. 


84     THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

Deep  within  the  rose's  heart, 
Hidden  close  by  petals  fair, 

There's  a  secret  spot,  secure, 
Sacred  to  its  perfume  rare. 

Nature's  breath,  so  fragrant,  pure, 

Mystery  unknown  to  art  ; 
Only  nature's  lovers  know 

Secrets  of  a  rose's  heart. 

There's  a  single  throbbing  tone, 
Full  of  passion,  full  of  pain, 

Tremulous  with  loving  joy, 
Ever  sounds  a  low  refrain. 

Through  the  mystic  melody, 

In  each  chord  so  full  and  strong, 

Speaking  to  the  inmost  heart — 
'Tis  the  voice  of  glorious  song. 

Living  glow,  and  roseate  blush, 
Perfume  rare,  and  music's  soul, 

Can  but  feebly  shadow  forth 

All  your  wondrous  sweet  control. 


TO  BELLA. 


These,  in  all  their  richness  rare, 
All  their  perfectness  you  are  ; 

But  to  me,  who  love  you  well, 
Something  dearer,  sweeter  far. 


86     THANKSGIVING,  AND    OTHER  POEMS. 


THE  KING-FISHER. 

Translated  from  the  French  of  Andre  Theuriet. 

THE  king-fisher  shoots  like  an  arrow  of  blue  : 

His  flight  spring  perfumes  follow 
To  his  nest,  which  gleams  in  the  cool  fresh  morn, 

Half  hid  in  a  leafy  hollow. 

In  the  limpid  lake  he  dips  his  wing, 

Still  wet  with  dew-drops  sparkling, 
Where  from  early  morn  he  has  sought  his  prey, 

In  reedy  hollows  darkling. 

His  plumage  is  charged  with  the  fragrant  breath 

Of  the  newly-mown  sweet  clover  : 
While  it  catches  the  hue  of  the  morning's  sky, 

With  a  soft  gray  clouded  over. 

As  he  nears  his  nest  in  the  old  tree  root, 

His  free  flight  untiring  keeping, 
His  piercing  cry  makes  the  echoes  start, 

And  wakens  the  birdlings  sleeping. 


THE  KING-FISHER. 

Naught  they  have  learned  of  that  great  wide  world 

Surrounding  their  leafy  dwelling  ; 
But  their  tiny  breasts,  half  nude  as  yet, 

With  a  sudden  hope  are  swelling. 

They  venture  forth  upon  trembling  wing, 

Where  reeds  and  rushes  quiver  ; 
And  where  like  flashes  of  spotted  light 

The  fish  dart  down  the  river. 

Some  instinct  within  them  strangely  stirs, 

Prompting  the  bonds  to  sever  : 
A  plunge — a  cry — and  they  are  lost 

To  the  reedy  nest  forever. 


88      THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 


GRANTED. 

"  WHAT  do  you  mean  by  love  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  know  it  must  be  something  grand  ; 
If  you'll  explain  a  little  bit, 

I'll  try  so  hard  to  understand." 

O  ruby  lips  !     O  satin  cheek  ! 

Blue  eyes  of  wonder  open  wide  ; 
So  near  your  gaze  who  could  explain  ? 

"Well,  why  don't  you  begin  ?  "  she  cried. 

"True  love,"  I  answered,  "  is  a  rose 
That  blooms  when  other  flowers  are  dead  ; 

And  scatters  fragrance  far  and  wide." 
"But  roses  have  big  thorns,"  she  said. 

"True  love  is  like  an  inward  fire, 
That  burns  and  burns  by  night  and  day.  " 

"  What !  ne'er  goes  out  at  all  ?  "  cried  she. 
"  'Twould  scorch  one's  very  breath  away." 


89 


GRANTED. 

"  True  love  is  an  impetuous  stream 

That  on  and  on  forever  flows  ;  " 
"Oh,  dear  !  "  she  pouted,  "  that's  too  cold  ; 

I  shiver  to  my  very  toes. " 

"True  love  is  like  a  chain,  that  binds 
So  close,  for  life  and  death  as  well  :  " 

"Love  like  a  clanking  chain ?  "  cried  she. 
"'Tis  only  fit  for  prison  cell." 

I  closely  clasped  her  hand  in  mine, 

Her  wee,  white,  timid,  fluttering  hand  : 

"  Now  listen — look  into  my  eyes, 
And  try  to  rightly  understand. 

"True  love  is  like  an  earnest  prayer, 

That  heartfelt  rises  to  the  skies  ; 
That's  hardly  breathed  by  trembling  lips, 

And  overflows  in  tearful  eyes." 

She  shyly  raised  her  eyes  to  mine, 

Then  swiftly  bowed  her  golden  head  : 

Her  sweet  lips  trembled  with  their  joy — 

"  Why,  one  should  grant  a  prayer,"  she  said. 


THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 


TO  MADAME  MARIE  ROSE. 

OH,  the  roses  !     The  roses  ! 

A  world  of  rare  perfume, 
A  world  of  blending  color, 

A  world  of  beauteous  bloom. 
We  scarce  can  tell  the  fairest, 

So  many  fair  we  see  ; 
But  there  is  one — the  rarest, 

We  call  it  Rose  Marie. 

Gentle,  and  sweet,  and  loving, 

As  the  Wild  Rose  wet  with  dew 
That  blossoms  in  green  country  lanes, 

The  rose  our  childhood  knew  ; 
Or  the  Cinnamon  Rose  that  budded 

Beside  the  garden  gate, 
On  which  we  leaned  in  the  twilight, 

A  coming  step  t'  await. 


TO  MADAME  MARIE  ROSE. 

Fair  as  the  waxen  petals, 

The  spotless  buds  half  blown, 
That  ever  in  the  raven  hair 

Of  matchless  beauty  shone  : 
With  a  tender,  varying  color 

That  to  the  cheek  will  start, 
Like  the  delicate  shades  that  linger 

In  the  Tea  Rose's  deepest  heart. 

A  grand  and  glorious  meaning 

In  the  dark  eyes'  slumbrous  fold, 
Deep,  full,  intense,  a  hidden  fire, 

Like  the  heart  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold 
The  charming,  graceful  presence 

Disguise  can  ne'er  conceal  : 
A  perfect  blooming,  like  the  flower 

Of  the  peerless  Marshal  Neil. 

But  this  queen  of  my  rose  garden, 
This  blossom  of  my  choice, 

Unlike  all  other  roses, 

Speaks  in  a  wondrous  voice  ; 


92      THANKSGIVING,  AND    OTHER  POEMS. 

A  tone  that  touches  and  echoes 

My  heart-strings  all  along, 
Till  they  stop  beating,  to  listen — 

'Tis  the  voice  of  glorious  song. 

Sometimes  a  love-song  tender, 

To  be  sung  in  the  twilight  dim — 
Sometimes  a  prayer  just  whispered, 

Or  a  grand  cathedral  hymn  ; 
Sometimes  a  gay  French  chanson, 

Or  a  sparkling  barcarole, 
Sometimes  a  strain  of  grand  despair, 

To  shake  the  very  soul. 

It  matters  not — the  music 

Is  ever  full  and  free, 
And  the  voice  that  charms  the  waiting  world 

Sings  tenderly  to  me. 
Fair  queen  among  the  roses, 

Fairest  of  all  we  see, 
Long  may  she  reign,  the  lovely, 

The  peerless  Rose  Marie. 


ASHES. 


93 


ASHES. 

SOFT  and  still,  cold  and  gray, 

A  pile  of  ashes  before  me  lies  ; 
I,  motionless,  wonder  if  they  will  stir 

When  the  first  faint  breath  of  morn  shall  rise. 

All  night  long  I  have  watched  them  fall, 

Softly  and  silently,  one  by  one, 
A  gray  cold  mass  'neath  the  blackening  grate, 

They  have  all  fallen — my  watch  is  done. 

Some  hours  ago,  when  I  lit  the  fire 

(Is  it  hours  or  years  I  have  passed  since  then  ?) 
My  heart  beat  high  with  a  strong  desire, 

A  hope,  a  love,  like  other  men. 

The  cheery  flame  leaped  quick  and  high, 
As  if  it  waited  the  touch  of  my  hand, 

And  flashed  a  reply  to  my  inmost  thoughts, 
I  almost  think  it  did  understand. 


94     THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

What  pictures  I  saw  in  the  glowing  coals  ! 

What  a  truthful  artist  bright  thoughts  can  be  ! 
And  mine  were  as  bright  as  the  dancing  flame, 

As  they  painted  me  pictures  fair  to  see. 

What  was  it  that  dimmed  the  pictures'  glow  ? 

A  letter — a  marvel  of  delicate  art : 
"  We  have  both  been  quite  mistaken,  and  so 

You  must  see  it  is  better  that  we  should  part." 

'Twas  a  dainty  sheet  like  a  rose-leaf  pale, 
Its  breath  of  perfume  filled  all  the  air  ; 

Since  I  crushed  it  in  my  burning  hand, 
There's  a  scent  of  rose  leaves  everywhere. 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  the  fierce  flame  cried. 

I  smoothed  it  out,  and  I  kissed  it  thrice, 
Then  laid  it  upon  the  glowing  coals — 

It  was  burned  to  ashes  in  a  trice. 

O  God  !  how  it  writhed  in  the  flame's  hot  grasp  ! 

I  strove  with  my  might  its  mad  course  to  stay  ; 
Then  I  knew  by  the  coldness  I  felt  within, 

It  was  my  heart  that  had  burned  away. 


ASHES. 


95 


There  is  no  flower  when  the  root  is  dead — 
What  need  of  hope  when  the  heart  is  gone  ? 

So  I  said  farewell  to  my  hopes  so  bright, 
And  burned  them  to  ashes  one  by  one. 

They  were  sweet  as  the  first  warm  breath  of  June, 
And  fair  as  the  blossom  on  Alpine  snow  ; 

My  hand  was  ice,  and  my  lips  were  dumb, 
As  I  yielded  them  up  to  the  crimson  glow. 

My  fair  false  love,  could  you  see  them  now, 
The  heart  and  the  hope  that  were  thine  before, 

Would  you  care,  I  wonder,  that  naught  remains 
But  ashes,  piled  on  the  marble  floor  ? 

The  night  is  over — the  day  dawns  fair — 
Below,  the  street  echoes  with  busy  tread  ; 

I  open  my  door,  and  leave  behind 
Only  a  pile  of  ashes — dead. 


96     THANKSGIVING,  AND    OTHER  POEMS. 


THE  ROBIN  RED-BREAST. 

Translated  from  the  French  of  Andre  Theuriet. 

I  HAVE  had  a  dream,  my  darling  : 

Half  hid  in  a  leafy  wood, 
On  the  border  of  a  meadow, 

A  low-roofed  cottage  stood  : 
In  a  tall  tree,  white  with  blossoms, 

A  robin,  with  scarlet  breast, 
Twitters  and  sings  in  gladness, 

As  he  builds  his  mossy  nest. 

The  red-breast,  tender  and  loving, 

Whose  breath  of  joyous  song, 
In  eager,  bounding  measure 

Like  his  life-blood  flows  along, 
Till  it  bursts,  a  stream  of  music, 

From  his  throat,  as  deeply  red 
As  the  scarlet  berries  that  glisten 

'Mong  the  leaves  by  the  river  bed. 


THE  ROBIN  RED-BREAST. 

His  coming  shall  bring  us  gladness, 

And  his  nest  in  the  beechen  tree 
A  charm,  a  guerdon  of  fortune, 

An  amulet  shall  be. 
To  our  window,  by  tendrils  shaded, 

When  the  day  is  young  and  fair, 
His  happy  roulade  of  greeting 

Shall  float  on  the  morning  air. 

And  when  on  amethyst  pinions 

The  night  sinks  slowly  down, 
And  noiseless  spreads  o'er  the  drowsy  world 

A  mantle  of  golden  brown  ; 
When  your  fair  young  head,  my  darling, 

In  my  arms  shall  cradled  rest, 
A  softly  twittered  lullaby 

Will  sound  from  the  leafy  nest. 

When  the  spring  time  paints  the  hill-sides, 
And  the  brooklets  wake  and  sing  ; 

When  lilies  gem  the  meadows, 
And  there's  beauty  in  everything  ; 

7 


THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

When  the  sober  mulberry  bushes, 
Stand  dressed  in  their  robes  of  gray, 

Still  the  happy  red-breast  carols, 
As  he  steals  their  fruit  away. 

When  the  frost  with  sparkling  fingers 

Makes  pictures  on  the  panes  ; 
When  the  snow  lies,  drifted  whiteness, 

Along  the  distant  lanes  ; 
To  a  place  on  the  hearth  between  us, 

To  the  glow  of  our  happy  home, 
To  our  warm  good  cheer  and  affection, 

We'll  bid  our  birdling  come. 

And  our  red-breast,  ere  he  leave  us, 

Leaves  behind  the  frost  and  snow, 
Will  sing,  as  he  stands  in  the  shadow 

Of  our  fire-light's  crimson  glow  : 
"Through  the  burning  heat  of  summer, 

Through  the  winter's  cold  and  snow, 
True  love  blooms  on  unfading." 

My  darling,  shall  it  be  so  ? 


GHOSTS. 


GHOSTS. 

You  don't  believe  in  ghosts,  you  say  ? 

Hm.     Well,  I  must  confess,  I  do  ; 
II  you  had  seen  one  face  to  face, 

Perhaps  you  might  believe  it  too. 

Twas  thus — before  my  glass  one  night 
•    I  passed,  when  sudden  gleaming  there, 
'Mong  the  smooth  braids,  I  saw  a  light 
Upon  the  shade — my  first  gray  hair. 

I  almost  laughed  aloud  in  scorn  ; 

I  would  not  have  it  so,  in  truth  ; 
Turning,  I  saw  beside  me  stand 

The  ghost  of  my  departed  youth. 

My  heart  throbbed  mightily — not  fear 
The  cause— the  rather  silent  pain  ; 

The  present  was  a  dream,  and  quick 
The  long  gone  days  came  back  again. 


99 


100     THANKSGIVING,  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

The  days  when  eyes  were  brightly  blue, 
And  cheeks  as  red  as  rose  in  May; 

Before  the  hot  tears  came  that  burned 
The  fair,  fresh,  youthful  tints  away. 

When  the  young  heart  was  fresh  and  warm, 
And  full  of  faith  in  God  and  men  ; 

How  many  bitter,  bitter  hours 

Have  changed  the  faith  to  doubt  since  then. 

When  each  new  day  was  new  delight, 

And  every  untried  path  a  way 
Through  flowery  fields  and  meadows  bright ; 

When  hope  grew  stronger  every  day, 

And  love  was  warm,  and  always  true  ; 

No  fear  it  might  grow  cold  or  fail ; 
For  over  all  the  glowing  world 

Lay  youth's  bright  morning's  mystic  veil. 

The  phantom  stood  with  sad,  sweet  eyes, 
Seeming  my  every  thought  to  know ; 

While  memory  brought  and  pictured  fair 
Each  glad  detail  of  long  ago. 


GHOSTS,  TO  I 

As,  fading  soft  within  the  blue, 

Melt  the  last  tints  of  dying  day  ; 
E'en  as  I  gazed  in  mute  surprise, 

The  still,  sweet  presence  died  away. 

I  stretched  my  arms  to  hold  it  fast. 

"Come  back,"  I  cried.      "  Oh  !  say  not  so, 
That  youth  is  thus  forever  fled. 

Come  back,  I  cannot  let  you  go.'' 

No  answer  but  the  sighing  wind  : 

Alone,  I  turned  :    "  O  spirit  fair, 
Some  token  leave  " — again  I  caught 

A  glimpse  of  this,  my  first  gray  hair. 

No,  let  it  lie,  one  silver  thread 

Among  the  countless  darker  host ; 
'Tis  proof  that  I  am  growing  old, 

And  once,  at  least,  have  seen  a  ghost. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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1232 


Lav-Tence-—  _ 
Thanksgiving 
and  other  poems 


PS 

2232 

L373t 


•UM  SSUI!£RN  REG|ONAL  LIBRARY  FACILI 


A  A      000034508    2 


